


whatever you're thinking about

by Anonymous



Series: anon's starker fics [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Tony Stark, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, First Time, Guilty Tony Stark, Kinky Peter Parker, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Pollen, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Top Peter Parker, if that's even a tag, internalized kinkshaming ?, of the sex pollen variety, otherwise everyone's very into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23744365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Are you suggesting that we need to plan for some kind of sex pollen bullshit, Romanov? I’m sorry, is this science fiction?”
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: anon's starker fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710439
Comments: 11
Kudos: 357
Collections: Anonymous





	whatever you're thinking about

**Author's Note:**

> wow so we're only 37 days into quarantine and this is the absolute filthiest, kinkiest thing I've ever written. and it's still got some feels!
> 
> fun fact on my computer the title of this file is "jesus take the wheel". title is from Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood because of course it is.

Natasha was the one who made them do it. 

When she’d first brought up the idea of having them name partners in advance, in case one of them were ever in a position where they were incapable of giving consent but in physiological need, Tony had scoffed. 

“Are you suggesting that we need to plan for some kind of sex pollen bullshit, Romanov? I’m sorry, is this science fiction?”

The stare she’d leveled at him didn’t have an ounce of humor. “Speaking from experience, Stark, it’s a little past science fiction.” 

He’d paled at the thought, and the grim look on her face—wondering on which end of the drug the Widow had been on and not sure which one made him feel sicker—had shut him up quickly. Luckily, it wasn’t something that he’d had to think about past filling out the initial forms, until it had been years without an incident and he’d successfully managed to completely forget the conversation had ever been had. 

Until Natasha, Wilson and Cap come back from an infiltration mission they’d been on, without Peter, pale and frowning, Sam looking sick to his stomach. As soon as they enter, Peter nowhere in sight, Tony’s on his feet, his stomach turning to lead. 

“Where’s the kid?” he’s rounding on his teammates immediately, eyes darting between the three of them. 

It’s Natasha who answers, her voice soft in that measured way she uses when she’s talking to marks, as she says, “We got a little surprise when the good doctor came back to her lab early and he had a bit of an incident getting out, but he’s going to be okay, medical’s bringing him in now,” and the fact that Natasha’s using that tone on him now makes it somehow immeasurably worse. 

“He’s going to be okay means he’s not okay right now, which means I need to—” Tony starts to push past her, only to feel Steve’s hand around his bicep, stopping him. 

“Tony—” he says, voice soft in a way that Steve never is with him, and that—even more than Natasha, feels like the nail in the coffin. 

“Oh god, he’s—please tell me he’s—” Tony feels his breathing growing shallow, just like he remembered, except this time he couldn’t tell his brain that it was overreacting, remind himself he wasn’t in New York, because this was so much worse than being in New York, this was Peter and he was hurt and Steve was being gentle and that meant it was so bad—

“Tony, Tony, look at me, Tony, I need you to breathe—” Sam’s in his face suddenly, one hand solid on his chest and breathing deeply, forcing Tony into rhythm with him, steady and slow until he’s coming back down. 

“He _will_ be okay, Tony, and you can go see him, but before you do, we need to talk about something,” Natasha says, pulling him towards the doors with a nod to the other two team members, who step aside to give them some space. 

“What could we possibly need to talk about before I see the kid?” Tony’s impatient, twitchy in the worst way, eyes darting to the doors constantly, mind on Peter, on whether he’s alright. He’d always felt responsible for Peter, had chalked it up to a late-onset urge to paternalism, but lately the feelings have taken a decided turn for the non-parental. The fact that Peter’s grown into a young man who is as brilliant and funny and kind as his ass is unreal hasn’t escaped Tony’s notice, much as he’s tried to avoid noticing. Noticing too much just means thinking about how much he’d like to have one of their late-night brainstorm sessions in the lab end in decidedly porn-like fashion, with Peter bent over a lab table and Tony’s hands—or mouth, or cock—all over that sweet ass, or how much he’d like to lean over and kiss Peter after making him laugh, or a thousand other things that are absolutely not okay for Tony to be thinking.

But right now, Peter’s hurt, and Tony needs to _fix_ it, if Natasha would just get to the point.

“Do you remember the consent list we had to fill out?” 

“Yes, what does—” The realization hits him like the proverbial ton of bricks, and he actually staggers backward with it, physically knocked off-kilter. “ _No_.”

Natasha’s face is grimmer than usual, her eyes even more haunted. “Yes.”

“It can’t—I thought—it’s been _years_ , science fiction—” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but the thought of whatever happened to Natasha to make her face go so flat and dull when she’d first brought up the subject happening to _Peter_ makes his chest feel tight, makes him have to fight the urge to gag. 

“I know, Tony, I know—” Natasha is soft again, apologetic, and Tony’s trying to force his mind to clear, to apply his considerable mental acuity to the situation at hand and not to imagining all of the worst ways this could be affecting Peter.

“Why are you—shit, did he fill it out? Did we make him fill it out?” Tony’s hands twitch, the nervous energy coiling in his stomach desperate to do something, anything, as he’s suddenly filled with cold dread and guilt, snaking its way through his veins to rest in a pit in his chest—he’d bent so many rules for Peter when it came to him joining the Avengers, unofficially for years before it became official, and if he’d bent this one and now Peter was stuck hurting because of him—

Natasha’s voice cuts through the haze of his panicked thoughts. “Tony, hey! Focus. He did, we got his list.” 

“Okay, so why are you here talking to me, instead of off collecting his girlfriend or whatever?” 

Natasha just looks at him, and for a half a second he just tries to puzzle out the way she looks apologetic but expectant, and then it hits him—

“ _No_ , no, no.” Tony screws his eyes shut, pressing his palms deep against his face, hard, as if that can scrub what Natasha is saying out of existence. “You’re not—he didn’t—”

He’s kept his eyes shut, but he can hear Natasha’s careful tone clear as day. “Tony, I want you to take a deep breath, and then tell me if your answer is really no.” 

That’s what finally gets Tony to open his eyes, to stop and do as Natasha says, breathe in and out deep and slow. Because he gets what Natasha’s implying—he can say no, he’s not the one who’s been hit by _sex pollen_ , but he’ll be leaving Peter to deal with the consequences. And when it’s put like that—the fear and risk that Tony won’t be able to handle the effect this will have on his existing entirely inappropriate feelings for his young mentee, that it’ll fuck with Tony’s head and his heart, against Peter in pain, Peter hurting, maybe seriously—well, it’s not even really a question at all, is it?

“No, I’ll do it.” He slumps against the wall, trying to focus on keeping up the deep breaths. “I just—why me?” he says, pleadingly, just the once.

“Because he trusts you. … Are you sure you can do this, Tony?” Natasha’s leaned forward and into his space so that she can meet his eyes, hold them with an intensely scrutinizing look.

“Of course, I—it’s the kid, Nat, I’d never—I’ll do whatever it takes to help him.” 

“I know that, but I’m asking if _you’ll_ be okay at the end of this.” And the way she’s holding his gaze makes him think that oh, maybe his noticing hasn’t gone as unnoticed as he’d hoped. 

And okay, so he’s not sure he’ll walk away from this one unscathed. It’s one thing to keep treating Pete like normal, keep him happy and comfortable and a solid team member, one who isn’t freaked out by the inappropriate attentions of a mentor-slash-fucking father figure, when Peter’s just being himself, adorable and intelligent and surprisingly sexy as it may be, and it’s another to do it when they’ve—god, he doesn’t even know what they’re going to have to do. So yeah, he’s probably fucked, but when the alternative is Peter hurt—

“Yeah, of course. I got this, Nat,” Tony says with more confidence than he feels, trying to shake the quiver out of his hands as he heads for the med bay.

When they arrive, it’s controlled chaos. Bruce is there already, talking to Sam and Steve and bent low over a screen while Helen Cho is on another screen, speaking rapidly. In the middle of it all is Peter, sitting on a white bed in the center of the room, curled up in a ball with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, shivering intermittently. Tony barely even realizes he’s moving until he’s next to Peter, resting his hand as a reassuring weight on the kid’s shoulder, and if it wrecks Tony a little bit to feel the way that Peter instinctively leans into it, looks up at him with lashes fluttering and a face flushed red, and says, “Mr. Stark?” with so much fucking hope, well, Tony’s dealt with being wrecked before. 

“Hey, Pete,” he starts, awkwardly. “Hear you’re not feeling so great?”

It’s—painful, as far as conversation starters go, and he wants to cringe, but he doesn’t have time before Peter’s wrapped around him in a tight hug, his fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically around the cotton of Tony’s shirt. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” he hears mumbled into somewhere near the vicinity of his chest, and his other hand comes down to run through Peter’s hair. 

“Hey—no—kid, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, okay?” 

“Tony’s right, Peter—” Steve says from across the room. “It was the right call to make. We were in a tough spot, and if you hadn’t stepped in we’d have risked every one of us getting hit. You handled a tough situation well, and made sure we hit our objective. You did good, kid.” 

And Tony’s absurdly jealous, for just a half second, at the way Steve’s little speech manages to make some of the tension drain out of Peter’s body, but the way that Peter keeps nuzzling into his grip, tighter against Tony as if he needs just that little bit more contact every second, does a good job of smothering the jealousy pretty quickly. 

“Alright, Bruce, what do we got?” Tony says, the hand on Peter’s shoulder moving to rub soothing circles against Peter’s back when he feels the shivering intensify. 

“Well,” Bruce says, frowning, and Tony fights the urge to grimace because that’s not exactly a _great_ sign, “we’re not entirely sure. This is a homegrown variety, and we don’t have the notes on it, so we’re flying blind here, plus we don’t know how it’ll interact with Peter’s enhanced physiology. Best case, the kid feels _really_ horny for a few hours, like Viagra times ten. It’ll hurt, and it’ll be uncomfortable as hell, but it’ll pass. Worst case scenario, it burns him up from the inside unless he works it out of his system.”

Tony can hear Peter’s whine into his chest, and he tucks the kid tighter against him, shooting a glare in Banner’s direction. “Wow, Bruce, quite a spread there. That’s not at all _entirely useless_ to us. What’s the plan, then?”

Bruce shrugs helplessly. “The best we can do is observe its effects, and figure out more about it from there.” 

Tony waits for more, then takes a look around the sterile white room and squawks indignantly. “Observe—here?” Peter clutches at him tighter, shivering intensifying, and Tony feels white hot rage for a moment, because—Peter deserves so much better than this. “No way. I’ve had so many sex tapes leak I’m my own category on PornHub, and _I_ find this daunting. FRI can monitor Peter’s vitals and whatever else you need, and otherwise he can get some fucking _privacy_.”

It’s Natasha this time, voice soft as she says, “Tony, in some cases the compound can make people lose inhibitions, lose _control_ , and with Peter’s strength…” She trails off, but Tony gets the implication clear enough. Peter can stop a bus with his bare hands—if things get out of control, it’s a little complicated. But—Tony looks around the white room, the teammates, the incessant beeping of the various monitors, the hushed whispers of Helen Cho and Banner continuing to try to piece together theories—and he says, “I’ve got the suit. And FRI will let you know if anything gets out of hand.” 

After a momentary grimace, and a long look between Bruce and Cho, Bruce nods, seemingly reluctantly. “There’s a… a protocol, we think we can try, an order of interventions, scaling up, that’ll help us get Peter through this efficiently.” 

“Well—spill,” Tony says, and he pretends to listen to Bruce, but mostly he’s running his hand through Peter’s hair, studying him, trying to get a sense of where the kid’s at—what’s pain and what’s embarrassment. When Bruce is done, Tony just says, “Got that, FRI?” and, at her clear “Yes, boss”, tugs Peter off the bed. It’s a little surprising when Peter doesn’t put his legs down but just wraps them around Tony’s waist, clinging to him, but when Tony feels the erection pressing against his stomach, thinks of the way Peter had been sitting, he gives Peter’s shoulder a squeeze and picks him up, thankful for all the extra weight training Happy’s been making him do. 

They make it to Tony’s room without incident, though Peter’s bouts of shivering are coming more frequently and more intensely, and he’s making little hitching motions to rub his erection against Tony’s stomach by the time Tony’s leaning to put Peter gently down on his bed. 

“Alright, FRI, status check?” Tony says, trying to distract himself from the way Peter is practically ripping the suit off, revealing rippling muscles and the damp stain on the front of his boxer briefs where Peter’s cock is leaking. In the moments before Tony’s able to pry his eyes away from the sight and focus on FRIDAY’s update, he watches Peter’s cock twitch under the fabric, and he swears under his breath. This is going to be the death of him, he thinks, as he slides behind Peter, taking off his own shirt and pressing his chest to Peter’s back, skin to skin contact. 

“Alright, Peter,” he says, softly, running soothing hands up and down Peter’s arms, “you’re just gonna go ahead and touch, get yourself off a couple times, see if that takes the edge off, got it?” 

Peter nods, huffs a breathless “Yes, Mr. Stark,” the first words he’s said since ‘I’m sorry’, and Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s biceps, pressing his head to the nape of Peter’s neck and trying not to look, even as he feels the twisting of muscle beneath his hands, hears a breathy gasp and the wet slide of what his mind is telling him must be Peter’s hand slipping through the precum at the head of his dick, and—fuck, it’s barely thirty seconds before Peter’s tensing in his grasp and coming with this breathy little moan that’s going to haunt Tony’s dreams. There’s a half second’s pause before Peter whines, in a not altogether pleasant-sounding way, and then the slick noises are back, faster this time, harder. The kid must not have softened at all, Tony thinks, trying to keep his mind focused on the scientific aspects, on the physiology of it, and not wondering how Peter’s cock must look, hard and covered in cum, probably flushed red, and—fuck, the kid’s coming again, and Tony knows this one took a little longer, a little more out of him. The sounds start up again, and Tony’s trying to focus on some pretty complex physics in his head to avoid rutting up against Peter’s back, getting some friction on his own rapidly hardening dick, when he hears Peter choke out a “Mr. Starrrkkkkk” that snaps his head up. 

Peter’s hand is wrapped around himself, and Tony doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything hotter—those pale, slim fingers, the ones he’s seen climb walls and assemble Stark technology and hold up buildings, covered in come and contrasted against the angry deep red of what is undeniably the _prettiest_ cock he’s ever seen, not thick but long and perfectly proportioned, perfect Peter with a perfect, pretty cock, and Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s upper arms to stop from bucking against the kid’s back. 

“Mr. Stark, I—I can’t—it _hurts_ ,” Peter is practically sobbing now, and Tony shushes him with a gentle squeeze. 

“It’s okay, Pete, don’t worry, don’t worry. FRI?” 

“Peter’s temperature is at 102 degrees Fahrenheit and is climbing at a rate 5% faster than when initially measured.” 

Tony swears softly into the kid’s hair, trying to rub reassuring circles into his skin. 

“Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho’s preliminary protocols suggest that participation of a partner is likely essential, if solitary stimulation is unsuccessful.” 

Tony closes his eyes, tries to prepare himself, because—yeah, okay, FRIDAY is telling him he’s going to have to touch Peter’s perfect dick, and he’s going to have to live with himself after he’s jerked Peter off, after he’s had Peter come all over his hands, but—102 and climbing, he tells himself, and leans down to speak softly in Peter’s ear.

“You hear that, kid? I’m gonna get a little more involved, okay? I’m sorry, but—don’t worry, Pete, I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you,” and as he says that he gently wraps his hand around Peter. Peter _keens_ as soon as Tony’s hand is on him, high-pitched and desperate, his back arching to push his ass up against where Tony’s now fully hard and throbbing at the feeling of Peter coming all over his hand. 

“That’s right, that’s it, good,” Tony says, moving his hand slowly, knowing that Peter’s got a few more in him, trying to focus on temperature modeling instead of the way that Peter is squirming in his grip, bucking up and into his hand and then pushing back to roll his hips against where he can now undoubtedly feel Tony’s erection. Peter comes two more times from Tony’s hands alone, but each time it takes a little longer to get there, a little more stimulation, until by the last time Tony’s got one hand wrapped around Peter’s cock, twisting expertly over the head, and the other over Peter’s nipple, wringing soft whines out of the kid as he shakes in Tony’s lap. 

“FRI…?” Tony says, feeling breathless and a little lightheaded, possibly from the fact that all of the blood in his body has been pooled in his groin for what must have been a half hour by now. 

“Temperature is 104.4 degrees Fahrenheit. The rate of increase in temperature has decreased to a level 10% below the rate initially measured.” 

Tony grimaces at those numbers—some good news, but not nearly good enough. Peter’s temperature still getting higher, and Tony could’ve told without FRIDAY’s sensors by the way the kid’s skin is hot to the touch but clammy, his shivers increasing, his head lolling back onto Tony’s shoulder with dazed eyes. 

“How can we get that down further, FRI?” 

“The protocols note that a component common to many such drugs works such that orgasm within the body of a partner is highly effective.” 

Tony blinks, lust-dazed brain working overtime to translate the jargon. “He’s gotta come inside me, got it, okay, okay, I got this.

He gently slides away from where he’s behind Peter, shushing the younger man as he whines gently at the momentary lack of contact, but then he’s got Peter propped up on the pillows ( _his_ pillows, the ones he slept on last night and the ones he’s going to sleep on tonight, never gonna be able to sleep on again without picturing Peter’s sweaty, mussed up curls spiraling around him against the white silk, his flushed face and parted lips, panting an inquisitive _Mr. Stark_?, shit) and he’s petting Peter’s thigh, going for comforting.

“Hey, Pete… you ever gotten a blow job?” The way Tony’s voice cracks doesn’t do wonders for the aura of competence and assurance he’s going for. Neither does the way Tony swears under his breath when Peter shakes his head in response. He’d been hoping to avoid taking firsts from the kid, for both of their sakes.

“Well, you’re in luck, okay? You are in very good hands, and I just want you to relax, alright? You don’t need to worry about anything but letting your body get what it needs. Can you do that for me, Pete?” Peter nods, eyes wide, as Tony settles himself between Peter’s thighs, leans down, and—he keeps telling himself he’s going to shut his eyes, that he’s at least going to give the kid the courtesy of not watching him in this moment, but Peter’s eyes are staying open, fixed on Tony’s, and it’s like he can’t look away, until he’s wrapping his lips around Peter’s cock and Peter is jerking, pupils blown and eyes huge and fixed on Tony, and coming into his mouth. 

He can hear Peter starting to apologize, but Tony just takes a moment to close his eyes and swallow (Christ, he knows what the kid _tastes_ like, this is going to kill him, he is going to die a dirty, tortured, happy old man) and then lifts his head, lets Peter’s still-hard dick fall from his mouth and gives Peter what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Don’t be sorry, kid, I told you I had you, okay? Just relax, I’ll take care of everything.”

Tony doesn’t give Peter time to respond, just bobs his head back down and tries to focus on anything other than the pressure between his legs, the way he feels like his jeans are strangling his cock, the breathy little moans and gasps Peter’s making. He gets one more orgasm out of Peter fairly quickly, swallows again, because there’s less and less each time as if even the kid’s superpowered body can’t keep up with the demands of the drug. The next one comes a little harder, forces Tony to break out a deep throating technique he’d put on the shelf years ago but is grateful for now. Peter’s straining underneath him, body shaking and hips making soft, half-aborted little thrusts into his mouth, and Tony’s jaw is starting to hurt when he makes the executive decision to go for it, to pull off Peter for just long enough to draw breath and then to sink slowly down, focusing on his throat relaxing, opening, until he’s pressed against the dense curls at the base of Peter’s cock. 

He swallows, and it’s like a dam breaks—Peter practically _sobs_ his name as he comes, and he just doesn’t stop talking, a steady stream now of “ _Mr. Stark_ , oh, god, yes, Mr. Stark, please, oh, _fuck_ , please, yes, god, so good,” and Tony is so glad that he’s kneeling up on the bed, his cock nowhere near anything resembling friction, because Peter’s long cock down his throat, heavy and musky and undeniably Peter, while he’s moaning his name filthily, has him on the edge already, and then Peter whines and chokes out, “yes, Mr. Stark, please, _Daddy_ ” and the wave of lust that surges through Tony makes him lightheaded. He slips down further, chokes a little bit around Peter and he can _feel_ the way the kid’s cock twitches, feel a couple of good thrusts that make him gag, feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes and hear the sloppy wet sounds of him just _taking_ Peter, and then the kid is coming one more time, straight down Tony’s throat, with a desperate cry, before he sinks back onto the bed, body going limp. 

Tony pulls off of Peter, swallowing a few times and wiping at his eyes, trying to ignore the way Peter is softly panting, “Daddy, yes, Daddy,” and instead croaks out, “FRI? Status?” 

His voice is _wrecked_ and his throat is sore but—if Peter’s doing better, it’s all fine. 

“Peter’s temperature is 105.7 degrees Fahrenheit, and is climbing at a rate that is 95% lower than the rate initially measured.” 

Tony closes his eyes, tries to think his way through the numbers and rates of change and—fuck, Peter’s reaching out a hand, softly crying _Daddy, please_ , and he’s so hard it’s painful, he honestly thinks he might somehow hurt himself being so hard for so long, and—“What do we have to do to get his temperature to start going down, based on what we’ve done so far?” 

He reaches a hand out to hold onto Peter’s where he’s reaching for him, squeezing reassuringly as FRIDAY runs the numbers. “Without further escalation through the protocols, Peter would need to achieve orgasm another 4 times within the next thirty minutes to avoid further temperature increase and begin decrease, based on current temperature models.”

Tony takes a deep breath, swallows a couple of times at that. While he’s not opposed, in theory, to the idea of just holding Peter’s pretty cock in his mouth for the next half hour, letting his mouth and throat get fucked, like a toy—which, wow, really, the way his cock is jumping at that idea makes Tony think he really might be more gone on the kid that he’d previously realized—his throat and jaw are already aching, and given the diminishing marginal returns on each new form of stimulation, Tony doesn’t even know if they can get there. 

“Boss?” FRIDAY pipes back up, and Tony shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

“Yeah, FRI? Anything useful from the peanut gallery?” 

He notices that the tension is starting to build in Peter’s body again, and the hand holding onto his is gripping tighter and tighter, Peter’s hips starting to roll in lazy little thrusts where he’s looking for friction, so Tony really hopes Banner and Cho have got something good. 

“Ms. Romanov says, and I quote, Tony, the kid needs to fuck.” 

He can hear Peter’s whine, see the jerk of his cock and the sticky trail of precum it leaves on his stomach, and—okay, yeah, the kid needs to fuck, and this is definitely another thing that’s going to absolutely ruin Tony for the rest of his life, but—105.7 is bad, reaching very bad for the internal organs levels of bad, and so Tony lets go of Peter’s hand to lean over to a nightstand. 

“FRI?” he says, keeping his eyes closed as he undoes he jeans and wriggles out of them and his underwear, exhaling a sigh of relief as some of the ache in his cock subsidies, as he uncaps the lube and starts slicking his fingers. “I’m assuming that it’s still optimal if the kid comes inside the partner?” 

“Yes, boss,” he hears, and he exhales as he arches, reaches a hand behind himself to slide his fingers against his opening. It’s been—Christ, possibly a decade since he did this, and, wow, if that doesn’t make him feel way too old to be touching the beautiful boy sprawled on his bedsheets. 

He’s distracted from the slight burn as he eases a finger inside of himself, mouth open on a silent pant, by the way Peter is whining, staring at him, brows furrowed in confusion even through the haze of lust that has him palming his cock, dragging his fingers through the streaks of precum dripping from the tip. 

“Hey Pete—” Tony pants around the effort of sliding a second finger inside, a little too fast, but every second Peter’s not inside of him is a second that Peter’s not getting better. “Were you keeping up with that?” Peter nods, but slowly, eyes focused more on Tony’s cock, bobbing between his legs as Tony works at scissoring his fingers inside of himself, trying to stretch himself as quickly and efficiently as possible. “Okay, so then you know—ah, _fuck_ ” he pants as his fingers brush past his prostate, “—I’m assuming here that since there haven’t been any blow jobs, there hasn’t been any— right, and so, you know that I’m so sorry that you don’t get to have this moment with somebody special, with rose petals and moonlight and all that romantic shit you deserve, okay, but I’m gonna take care of you, you’re gonna be okay, Pete.” 

While he’s been talking, he’s managed to get a third finger in, still a little too tight to be entirely comfortable, but Peter’s eyes are going glassy, so he decides good enough is good enough, comes to lay next to Peter on his stomach, tries to get Peter to kneel up behind him. 

“No, no, Mr. Stark—please, don’t—wanna see you, don’t go—” Peter pants, tugging desperately to turn Tony back over, so—Tony does, drawing his hips up and wrapping his legs around Peter’s waist, because—fuck, because like watching the little look of ecstasy dawning over the kid’s face as he sinks in, like he’s just discovering air for the first time, his mouth falling open, combined with the delicious agony of that beautiful cock stretching him, like he’s ever going to get over that for as long as he lives. 

“That’s it, Pete, that’s right, you’re doing so well, so good for me, kid,” Tony says, babbling now as he tries to focus on not spilling all over his stomach untouched before Peter’s even halfway in, but it’s like the praise is a jolt of electricity to Peter’s spine, because the words are barely out of Tony’s mouth when Peter shudders, practically crying as he comes, thrusting in _hard_ with the force of it, burying himself to the hilt in Tony, and—fuck, maybe not entirely holding back that super strength, Tony thinks. The noise that it punches out of him is not entirely a pleasurable one, and that must cut through the haze of Peter’s arousal because he stops, looking down at Tony with eyes wide and—shit, fear on his face. 

“Mr. Stark? I—oh god, I—did I—? I hurt you, didn’t I, oh my God, I—I’m so sorry,” Peter stutters, and he tries to pull out but Tony wraps his legs tighter around Peter’s waist, trying to make soothing noises and ignore the dull throb as his body adjusts to Peter inside of him. 

“Hey, no, kid, it’s okay, I’m fine, I promise, you’re good,” Tony says, but Peter is just shaking his head, looking down at Tony, and his bottom lip is quivering, tears are shining in his eyes. 

“I did, didn’t I, oh God, I’m so sorry Mr. Stark, I’m _so_ sorry.” Peter’s shaking slightly now, and even Tony can see the sheen of sweat rising on his skin. Tony’s trying to get him to rock back into him, hitching his hips and pulling, but Peter’s just shaking his head. “I don’t wanna hurt you again, I can’t—” 

“You’re not gonna hurt me, Pete, okay, I promise. I’m gonna be okay, but you’re not if we don’t get this drug out of your system.” 

Peter’s crying a little bit now, and FRIDAY has chimed in to say, “Peter’s body temperature is beginning to increase at an increasing rate again,” and Peter’s still not moving, even though there’s barely even a burn anymore, Tony acclimated to the stretch and Peter’s cum slicking the way further, and then there’s a crackling over the suite’s comms and he hears Bruce say, “What’s going on in there, Tony? Everything okay?” and it’s all gone to shit, and if he could just _think_ —

Oh. 

Tony puts it together, Nat talking about lowered inhibitions, the things that have set Peter off, the things he’s said, and—he’s got a plan, but this, _this_ is going to seal his one-way ticket to hell after this all said and done. Peter’s never going to want to look at him again, maybe, probably, and Tony will gladly remove himself to exile in Siberia just as soon as he knows Peter’s going to be okay, so—

“FRI, cut off comms until I give the say so,” he says, with more confidence than he feels, waiting until she’s confirmed, because anyone else on the team hearing this is the _last_ thing he wants, for himself or for the kid, before he shifts slightly under Peter, brings one of his hands up to grab for Peter’s hand, laces their fingers together and squeezes, takes a deep breath, one last long look at Peter, steels himself. 

“You wanna be good for Daddy, don’t you, Peter?” 

The words hang between them for a moment, and Tony can _see_ the instant they hit Peter, the way his eyes go heavy-lidded, tension draining out of him as his entire focus turns to Tony, his cock twitching and hips giving a little hitch and he says, “yes, Daddy, I do, don’t wanna hurt you, wanna be good—”

Tony runs his thumb over the top of Peter’s hand where they’re intertwined, tugs Peter so that he’s leaning over Tony again and Tony can reach out and press a tiny kiss to Peter’s knuckles. “I know, sweetheart, you’re such a good boy. Can you be a good boy and fuck Daddy, huh? Daddy wants to see you cum.” 

Peter keens at that, starts rolling his hips, and when he gasps out, “yes, Mr. Stark, sir, yes,” Tony feels his cock jerk, knows that Peter can feel Tony tightening around him by his little whine, but Tony just moves his other hand to Peter’s waist, helps him with a soft, rolling rhythm. 

“Is it—is this okay, Mr. Stark? Wanna be good, Daddy,” Peter gasps, his face close enough to Tony’s to kiss, and _fuck_ is it fucking with Tony the way the kid keeps switching back and forth between Mr. Stark and Daddy, like he _wants_ it that way, and those are dangerous lines of thinking. 

“Yeah, Peter, baby. You’re so good for me, want you to come for me,” Tony gasps, fighting to keep his head through the steady way that Peter’s fucking him, powerful and rhythmic and _god_ he might come untouched like this. 

“Can you come for Daddy?” 

“God, oh my God, yes, Mr. _Stark_ ,” Peter whines, hips stuttering as he comes, hard and deep, and Tony groans desperately at the feeling, at Peter, at all of it, and Peter’s not stopping, barely pausing to catch his breath before he’s rolling his hips again, harder this time, deeper, reaching down to shift Tony’s hips just slightly, and—

Tony can’t fucking _breathe_ because Peter has found his prostate, is fucking right into it, smooth strokes deep and sure and, it’s a good thing Peter doesn’t need talking off anymore because Tony thinks whatever higher brain functions are necessary for speech have completely left the building, he’s reduced to a gasping, sobbing animal, just his pleasure and Peter’s cock, and then Peter’s gasping, hips falling out of rhythm, and he unlaces their hands to take Tony’s cock in his own. 

“ ‘m so close, Daddy, gonna come, want you to come, wanna make you feel good, Mr. Stark, please, Mr. Stark, want you to come.” 

“Oh, fuck, _Peter_ ,” Tony sobs, twisting beneath Peter and in his grip as he comes. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever felt, feels like it zips through each and every one of his cells, burning hot pleasure scorching them, burning down everything he’s ever felt and replacing it with something new, with _Peter_ , who’s following him over the edge a few strokes later, crying with the strength of his orgasm and then collapsing, boneless, on top of Tony. Tony feels darkness fluttering at the edges of his consciousness, has barely enough willpower to rasp out, “FRI? … Peter?” 

As soon as he hears FRIDAY say, “Peter’s temperature is 101.3 degrees Fahrenheit and steadily falling. It is likely that the drug has passed out of his system,” Tony closes his eyes and lets himself slip under.

*

When Tony wakes up, it is with immense pain.

He groans as he tries to sit up, feels the stretch burning through his hamstrings, the ache in his back, the sticky sloppy mess between his thighs where, oh god, Peter’s cum is leaking out of him. His only thought is to find a shower, five minutes ago, until he realizes Peter is out of reach, and then he hears soft crying noises. 

“Peter? Pete?” The panic is rising in his throat, eyes darting around to find Peter, until he finds him on the other edge of the bed, wrapped in blankets and shivering with how hard he’s crying. Tony’s next to him with an arm wrapped around him in a hug before he knows it, ignoring the screaming pain that ripples through his muscles as he does. “What’s wrong, Peter, is it back? Are you okay?” 

“N-no, it’s not back,” Peter whispers, just loud enough for Tony to hear, and Tony releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I just—I’m—oh my God, I remember everything.” 

Tony’s fingers clench involuntarily in the sheets, and he knows he’s grimacing as he gets ready for the moment—when Peter shoves him away, tells him he can’t ever look at him again, how disgusted he is by him, but Peter just says, “I’m so, oh God, I’m so _sorry_ Mr. Stark, holy—I’m _so, so sorry_.” 

“What—? Pete, oh, sweetheart,”—the endearment slips out involuntarily, and that’s an issue Tony will deal with in the future—, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, okay? It wasn’t your fault, none of this was your fault, c’mon.” 

“B-but, I—I _hurt_ you, I remember hurting you, and you’re in pain now, I can tell, and I—” Peter’s shoulders are shaking beneath Tony’s arms, and Tony tightens his grip, turns his face in to tuck against Peter’s neck. 

“No, no, Pete, it’s okay, I—yeah, I’m a little sore, but that’s on me for not taking enough time to prep, okay, I promise.” He’s rocking them softly now, ignoring the shriek of protest in his hips and lower back to soothe Peter. 

“And then, I—I called you—you must think I’m _disgusting_ , I’m so stupid and weird and I can’t believe—” 

Tony’s momentarily confused, and then he realizes, with heartbreaking clarity, what Peter means. He can actually feel the little pieces of his heart, shattering as he realizes the secret shame Peter must be carrying around, how mortified he must feel, and he tells himself this is why he presses a soft kiss to Peter’s hair, tightening his grip. 

“Peter, listen to me, okay? You have nothing to be ashamed of, okay? Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with liking what you like. And if anyone’s going to judge you, they’re gonna have me to answer to, alright?” 

“No, it’s—you must think there’s something _wrong_ with me,” Peter says, shaking his head and trying to pull away from Tony, even as Tony tightens his grip.

“Hey, listen—I don’t. I promise. You don’t believe me? You said you remember, so that means you remember what I said too, right?” 

Peter hesitates at that, and Tony thinks he might have him, before Peter shakes his head, tucking it further against his chest. “You just said that because you were humoring me, trying to make sure I didn’t lose control and hurt us.” 

His voice sounds so small, and even as Tony’s pleading with Peter, saying, “No, Pete, I swear,” he knows it’s not enough, knows what _might_ be enough, if he’s brave enough to say it. And—yeah, okay, so somehow Peter totally missed Tony’s completely inappropriate enjoyment of what should have been a time for Tony to take care of Peter, keep him safe, instead of one of the top five most erotic experiences of Tony’s life ( _number one, really, if he’s honest with himself_ ), and maybe it’s not a good idea to point it out to him, because then he’ll realize just how bad Tony fucked this up, but that’s better than this Peter, hurt and ashamed of himself. 

“Kid—that’s not the only—I—Peter, I was into it. Really into it.”

Peter stops sniffling, and, unbearably slowly, his head comes up to look at Tony. Now Tony’s the one who feels like he can’t look the kid in the eye, but he owes him at least this, so he swallows the lump in his throat and goes on. “I mean it, Peter. I said that stuff because I liked it too. All of it—not just the Daddy stuff, but—you, it being you. And—okay, I know, I will immediately tender my resignation to the Avengers or whatever, I will go live in fucking Antarctica if that’s far enough away for you, on the moon if it’s not, I know I crossed a line, but please, please don’t think that I think less of you or that you have anything to be ashamed of—” 

He’s interrupted by the unexpected feeling of Peter’s hand coming up to cover his mouth. Peter’s eyes are still shining with unshed tears, but his brow is furrowed, and he holds up a finger for Tony to wait. He can practically see the gears working in the kid’s head, as his fucked-out brain works to process exactly how pissed at Tony he should be, and then the hand comes down.

“Why would you quit?” 

Tony blinks, surprised by the question. “Because I—because you were sick, you were drugged, and I’m your mentor, and the last thing you’d want would be for me to take any _pleasure_ in this situation. You trusted me to take care of you, not to—” He throws his hands in the air, sitting back, because he really shouldn’t need to explain this. 

“To fuck me?” Peter supplies, and Tony winces, nodding. 

Peter’s quiet for a long moment.

“When I filled out the form and I saw the question, I thought for sure it was a joke,” Peter says, finally, and Tony almost falls off the bed he scrambles back so quickly, would if it weren’t for Peter’s quick reflexes. 

“Jesus, Pete, if you didn’t actually know—didn’t actually mean—then I fucking, god, I—” _rape_ comes to the forefront of his mind, and he feels the tightness in his chest, horror building, but Peter’s got him, hauling him close again, palms pressed to either side of Tony’s face.

“Hey, hey, Mr. Stark, wait—Tony! I didn’t mean it that way. Listen, okay?” Tony’s breathing slows, enough that he nods, going limp in Peter’s grip. 

“I thought it was a joke, thought for sure you guys were gonna pop out of somewhere and make fun of me for it at some point, but I thought, hey, it’s the Avengers, who knows, and so, on the off-chance it was real, I knew the only person I’d want to put down would be you, because—” 

“Because you trusted me,” Tony fills in, feeling sick. 

“No! I mean—yes, I do trust you, but that’s not the only reason. I was going to say, because you’re hot.” Tony tenses, freezes as he looks up at Peter in confusion. “Like, really hot. Like, I’ve had a crush on you since pretty much puberty hot, like I’m really _really_ familiar with the Tony Stark category on PornHub hot, okay?” 

Tony hears a strangled little laugh that he realizes, belatedly, is coming from him. 

“And _I_ have been feeling so gross thinking that I took advantage of you, and had like, the sexual experience I’ve been dreaming of since I was thirteen, when all you were doing was trying to take care of someone you thought of as a kid.” 

Peter exhales slowly, but there’s a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth now. “You look surprised.” 

“I—I am surprised.” 

“I don’t know how, since I’ve been trying to hit on you since I turned 18, but it looks like maybe we’re both a lot dumber than we thought.” 

Tony’s full-on laughing now, shaking his head as he tries to process what Peter’s telling him. 

“So, you wanted to have sex with me? Not just the drug, not just someone to keep you safe in a father-mentor kinda way? And—God, do _not_ make a Daddy joke.” 

Peter has the audacity to look a little put out at that, and he pouts, he actually fucking _pouts_ at Tony. “Yes, Mr. Stark—Tony. I did. I do. And… and maybe more, if you… if you’d wanna talk about that.” 

Tony feels like he’s been transported to another planet. Maybe he actually died, maybe that orgasm gave him a heart attack, finally, and by some improbable logic he’s made it to heaven. 

“Am I dead? Is this a dream?” 

Peter leans forward and pinches Tony, hard, on the shoulder. Tony jerks to the side with a yelp, and then a deeper groan as he feels the fire in his lower back roar to life again at the sudden movement. “Oh, right—I don’t think heaven would hurt this much. Fuck, Pete, yeah, I’m into it, I wanna talk about it. Maybe we can get me to a shower, first, though? And you should probably go back to the med bay, get checked out.” 

“Alright, alright,” Peter says, climbing out of his nest of blankets and reaching out to help Tony stand, taking the bulk of his weight as they hobble their way to the bathroom. 

“So, Mr. Stark, who’s on your list, then?” 

“Pete, you don’t need to be on my weird sex pollen list to get to fuck me again.” 

“What about to get you to fuck me, Daddy?” 

“ _Jesus_ , Pete.”


End file.
